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Now you might say, but this guy writes these reviews as if he always sees the Madonna, is seeing her, or wants to see her so much that he sees her in his Grandma...? Or who knows, maybe I'm smoking a hemp sweater sprinkled with tar and Dutch grass, but tell me, in front of a "duel in the dark," can you put your brain on standby and proceed with a thorough analysis of the surely complex composition system of a work transcribed with only bass and drums and imbued with the most diabolically diverse samples...? I can't do it! Yes, I flash, I see the Madonna! I see the light of two Demons challenging each other in the darkness of the Abyss Below the Mountain, facing each other with reverential gazes and musculature, aware of the lethal and glorious crossroads before them, one shining white and the other black, and their tails aflame, waving and painting bright circles in the shadow... and I haven't smoked: I'm listening to Lightning Bolt with their rhythmic atmospheres that tune into your cardiac wave and start to slowly devour it, I'm listening to pure music, the kind that makes me travel in my mind and in that of others, people I've never met and create to see them for a first and only time, or perhaps forever, every time that bass and drum rolls their cry in my ears... and I don't think nonsense like "this is the soundtrack of my life," I mean, feel free to do so: but this music that speaks to me of a morning shattered into a thousand shards of glass from a broken glass that bloodies my hand pressed in too much anger in a snob-bar on a Kenyan plain is really the main theme of Giusella Marchiolo's philosophy class? I hope not.
To not let these feelings inside me die, feelings that speak to me of the two towers (Two Towers), Minas Tirith and Minas Morgul reaching in their last vertical thrust, ready to challenge each other one last time to the Zeppelinian sound of trumpets arming knights and orcs for the cruel final battle? If there were words, they would speak of the Queen of Light, the Prince of Peace accompanying her with his long bow, they would tell us of Gondor's people's escape, the horses' clatter in the valley, the red face of the Tyrants... maybe with poor results the usual minstrel with a voice marred by cider tries in that boring and tormenting usual aching lament of "Longstockins"... who knows if he, dejected on the silky carpet of the grand atrium of rage, in the hall, at the foot of His Eminence's throne, busy plucking the strings of his mandolin to the offbeat time of his liquid-drugged voice's jerks, would have expected the horde of monkeys that would hit him in its furry and, naturally, apish fury... a pup swaying perched in the King's crown, little more than a coat rack for those stupid animalistic tangles of squeaking hominids... In the Court of the Crimson King an invasion from the Planet of the Apes, scandalized ladies, the Black Queen stiffened, the Purple Piper robbed of his Pipe (indeed), the Fire Witch somewhat bewildered, belatedly remembers to singe the little monkeys, but there are too many, thirty thousand, they're even on the chandeliers... well, now I feel obliged to provide a brief definition of what might await you if you dare to make this splendid CD of contemporary art yours: a tribal orchestra enchanted in a sublime medley of metallic plates, and rhythmic melodies enclosed between the rough strings of an uninhibited bass, unleashed... a lethal combination for a group whose power lies in hammering, sawing, breaking, and slaughtering pieces of music into songs riddled with Swiss-cheese sounds: one cannot help but be fascinated by the originality of the eclectic composition of the two who only rarely allow themselves to accompany with instruments that are not as dark and drumming as theirs, but when they do, they fill their songs with monkeys...
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